


hands on your body (you're mine)

by incendir



Series: talk me down [5]
Category: Winner (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-28 21:38:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14458287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incendir/pseuds/incendir
Summary: He’d like to think that he’s getting better at admitting to himself how much he likes it.





	hands on your body (you're mine)

**Author's Note:**

> This is technically in the TMD series, technically a sequel of sorts to YHAL as it takes place after they are in an established relationship (time-wise these moments would be some time late 2017) but you don't need to read the other works in the series to read this since there isn't really much actual plot in here referencing anything from any of the other works. But most everything I write that's in "canon-verse" so to speak will be in this series just because the series is the background/framework for how I'd incorporate any of their interactions into a narrative.

**송** 강

* * *

 

Minho likes to watch Seungyoon fall apart.

He likes to watch Seungyoon break into pieces slowly, gradually, and eventually—likes first seeing the composure that Seungyoon wears remain on him even he wears nothing else. Seungyoon always starts out leading, regardless, the one injecting intent into kisses that were just seconds ago gentle and innocent—the one shutting the door of Minho’s bedroom with his foot as he leads Minho with their joined mouths towards the rapper’s bed.

Seungyoon is the one who strokes his fingers through the hair near the nape of Minho’s neck and says, smiling quietly—excitedly—in the exact same way he does when Seunghoon announces their food has arrived, when their managers return with the coffee order, when they are given free time during a filming, “Jinwoo-hyung went to the gym.”

That excitement will carry, all through their kisses becoming heavier and heavier—deep and messy. When Minho thinks of Seungyoon’s composure and confidence, it isn’t anything cold—shouldn’t be mistaken for pretentiousness or standoffishness. Rather, Seungyoon is collected—controlled—in all the best ways. His warmth and delight always seep through the almost elegant _togetherness_ he has about himself.

Minho likes watching that all come undone—likes seeing Seungyoon, almost feverish, dazed, lips kiss-bitten and red, swollen even fuller than they normally are. He likes loosely holding Seungyoon’s thighs, fitting easily in his hands, while Seungyoon moves his hips over Minho’s, while Seungyoon has Minho inside of him, taking what he wants at the pace that he wants.

He fits a hand between them, a simple and firm hold around Seungyoon so that the vocalist can thrust into Minho’s hand while he moves in Minho’s lap, legs folded and bringing him up and down, angling himself so he can get Minho’s cock to brush exactly where he wants inside of him. Minho leans back against the headboard, head resting on the top edge of the pile of pillows—he doesn’t come forward or up to kiss Seungyoon, waits instead for Seungyoon to come down to him whenever he wants to.

Piece by piece Seungyoon will fall apart until his thighs start shaking against Minho’s hips, until his hands start wrapping around Minho’s wrists, pulling Minho to sit up straighter, breathless murmurs of Minho’s name— _requesting_. Minho always holds himself out until Seungyoon gets to this point, until he’s wrapping his arms around Minho’s neck and shoulders, whispering against his ear with something that is half-smile, half-plea.

When that happens, Minho tightens his grip and starts thrusting up, he gives Seungyoon what he wants. Minho doesn’t stop thrusting even as he leans forward more and more until Seungyoon is the one pressed back, legs folded completely, knees at his ears. “No,” Seungyoon says, nearly no sound at all with the word, just the shape of his mouth as he shakes his head and pushes Minho back from the way Minho was about to cradle Seungyoon’s legs and press forward. “Up—” Seungyoon doesn’t even need to motion before Minho knows.

Minho knows.

He holds both of Seungyoon’s legs in the crook of one arm, bringing them up to rest against one of his shoulders, hand around Seungyoon’s thin ankles before Minho slips out and back in again, hitting Seungyoon at the angle that Seungyoon wants—able to move into Seungyoon at the pace and force that has Seungyoon whining and panting, mouth open soundless as the vocalist’s own hand wraps around himself again.

Minho wonders, if he even could tell anyone, if they’d believe him when he honestly—truly—expresses that his favorite part about Seungyoon coming undone right at the seams, reduced to parted lips and melodic moans and harsh keening, is after all of it, Seungyoon will be knocked out, cheek mushed between Minho’s shoulder and pillow, drooling onto Minho’s chest as he pulls the blankets up around them.

 

* * *

**강** 송

* * *

 

Ninety percent of the time, Seungyoon hates seeing Minho cry.

Whether from frustration of the nature of their careers sometimes, whether from pain or exhaustion or stress or sorrow or confusion, those times Seungyoon would do anything to stop his tears. There are times, however, when Minho cries, overwhelmed with surprise and joy, overwhelmed with gratitude and disbelief, and those times, Seungyoon sometimes feels like crying himself.

So that—he approximates—would be around nine percent. That leaves the thin sliver remaining, a mere one percent that Seungyoon admits only to himself, although he’s certain that Minho is aware on some level.

For one reason, for one certain circumstance, Seungyoon likes to see Minho cry.

The tears normally never escape his eyes, simply held there against his bottom lashes, wetting his long upper lashes as well every time he blinks up at Seungyoon. When Seungyoon presses in close enough to crush their mouths together, he can feel the wetness transfer onto his own cheeks.

Seungyoon likes Minho beneath him, facing him, thighs splayed wide enough for Seungyoon to fit between them. He likes pushing Minho’s legs farther and farther apart until a low, coarse sound tears it’s way out of Minho’s throat. He likes watching every single flutter of Minho’s eyelids, every passing expression, ever open and close of the rapper’s mouth as Seungyoon pushes in after stretching Minho.

He always takes his time to bottom out, pushing in almost agonizingly slowly even when Minho tells him that he’s stretched enough that Seungyoon can come in faster—Seungyoon goes slow, always frustratingly slow just so he can watch the way Minho’s eyes shift from Seungyoon’s gaze, up to the ceiling, to the walls of Seungyoon’s room, before closing completely, a crease beginning to appear between his eyebrows the deeper Seungyoon pushes in.

Seungyoon moves slowly too, doesn’t speed up at all—a maddening pace that drags on until there are beads of sweat quickly forming on both him and Minho. He leans in so that their chests are flush at the same time that Minho tugs Seungyoon down to him anyway, hands at the sides of Seungyoon’s face, fingers clinging to Seungyoon’s hair as he kisses him deep and clumsily, tongue sliding into Seungyoon’s mouth before Minho pulls away to gasp for breath.

Maybe, one day, Seungyoon will be able to put into words to himself better why exactly he likes seeing Minho look up at him with unshed tears. Maybe, that day, Seungyoon will be able to put a name on the emotion in Minho’s eyes—maybe, soon, Seungyoon will be able to admit to himself that it isn’t about the pretty tears, isn’t about the drops clinging to Minho’s long, dark lashes.

Maybe Seungyoon won’t be scared of what he sees unadulterated and brave in Minho’s eyes when he looks up at Seungyoon.

For now, Seungyoon strokes through Minho’s hair, damp from perspiration, brushing it off of Minho’s forehead as Seungyoon finally speeds up his movements, taking Minho’s cock into his other hand and pumping him in time with Seungyoon’s thrusts. When Minho has to bite down against the outside of his wrist to muffle the noises, Seungyoon kisses him—swallows the sounds down for him.

“Good?” Seungyoon asks, in a low voice, against the corner of Minho’s mouth. He kisses him again and again, doesn’t let Minho answer even if the rapper could. He feels though, with vague amusement, Minho nod fervently before he wraps his arms tighter around Seungyoon, moving his hips upwards to meet Seungyoon thrust for thrust.

Whenever Minho comes, his eyes clench shut and whatever unshed tears were gathered slip out, almost too perfectly in single drops, mingling down with the beads of sweat on the sides of his face. Seungyoon always wipes them with his own fingers, one by one if he can catch them, once they’ve both begun to breathe normally enough to speak.

Minho follows the movement of Seungyoon’s gentle, slender fingers with his eyes, head framed by Seungyoon’s arm on the pillows. “You like making me cry, huh?” His smile is wide and full, curving his eyes to the point where it already looks like he’s about to begin laughing as well.

“You like me as the bad guy even outside of dramas, huh?” Seungyoon teases back.

“You are a bad guy,” Minho blinks. “You made me cry.”

Seungyoon raises his eyebrows, the hand that had been stroking up and down Minho’s side stilling on Minho’s hip. “I made you feel so good _that_ you cried,” he corrects, partially triumphant, partially playful.

Minho laughs—loud and hard, burying his face into the pillow, sliding closer until his face is buried instead against the crook of Seungyoon’s neck and shoulder. “You really are getting funnier these days,” he says, and then shouting wordlessly in laughter—rolling as fast as he can out of Seungyoon’s reach when the vocalist makes an abortive strangling gesture.

 

* * *

 송 **강**

* * *

 

Minho takes care of him.

Minho takes care of Seungyoon well—really well—and Seungyoon would like to think that lately he lets himself be taken care of more. He’d like to think that he’s getting better at admitting to himself how much he likes it, exactly how much, and that it’s all right to like it.

To want it.

There is a mattress in Minho’s new studio that Minho usually has deflated during the daytime when he isn’t there. At night, however, Minho’s most productive hours, Seungyoon knows the mattress will always be out—ready with sheets and blankets and pillows piled on top. Whenever Seungyoon drops by, even unannounced, the mattress is there for him. Many nights Seungyoon simply goes there to sleep an hour or two before either working with Minho on whatever they need to get done or going to his own studio.

Other nights, the rare nights when neither of them have work, Seungyoon stretches himself over the mattress, stripping down and slipping underneath the thin blankets as if he were in the comfort of his own bedroom—as if he were truly about to turn in for the night. He dallies on his phone, usually, letting the dimness of the colored lights of Minho’s studio wash over him. There’s always music playing in Minho’s studio—sometimes music Seungyoon likes, sometimes he finds new songs this way, rolling over onto his stomach and asking Minho for the title.

Sometimes, Seungyoon watches Minho draw or paint—the vocalist doesn’t need to hover over Minho’s shoulder to see exactly what Minho is doing on his notebooks or canvases, just watching him from where Seungyoon lies on the mattress is enough. Following the way Minho’s arm move, looking upon the hunch of his back and shoulders over the desk, the tilt of his head, his long eyelashes shrouded over his focused gaze—that’s enough for Seungyoon.

On those rare nights, Minho wraps up whatever he’s working on—whether art or music—earlier than usual. He stands up from his chair and kneels on the floor beside the mattress, leaning in on his arms to bring himself level to Seungyoon’s eyes. If Seungyoon is hungry, Minho orders delivery then. If Seungyoon wants a drink, wants to watch a film, wants to listen to more music, Minho always has something in his studio—beer, juice, water, soda, canned coffee—he has films on his laptop, he has endless new music for them to listen to together.

Most often, Seungyoon just wants to talk.

He likes to lie on his back, Minho sitting at his side, gazing down at him, their fingers intertwined, and Seungyoon likes to talk—voices low and hushed, as if the entire room wasn’t soundproof, as if someone could be listening on them at that very moment. They talk about the schedules they have too early tomorrow—early enough that they should be asleep right now—they talk about what they should be finishing at the main studio, about what they’re working on separately, about how their parents are doing, about how many times their mothers have texted them this past week, about their pets, about the new restaurant that opened up a block over from the company.

They talk about anything and everything until Seungyoon moves his hand from Minho’s up onto the rapper’s wrist, tugging him down for a kiss that’s barely a touch of lips to lips, barely lasting even a second. Seungyoon thinks that he likes Minho best like this—on nights like these—hair rumpled, sometimes sticking in random directions even though it’s swept back, a loose, sleeveless, cotton t-shirt that’s so worn and stretched, it’s nearly falling off his body. Nights when Minho knows he will be working only in the studio, with only Seungyoon as potential company, he often wears nothing but sweatpants from the waist down—underwear foregone, and Seungyoon knows tonight is one of those nights, too.

Minho doesn’t take his own clothes off, doesn’t take much on nights like this—he just gives and gives, and lately, Seungyoon no longer feels guilty about only taking sometimes. He lets Minho pull back the sheets, tug Seungyoon forward until his legs frame Minho’s waist, fingers slicked up with lube and slipping inside of Seungyoon two at a time. Minho presses himself down against the mattress as well then, after making Seungyoon squirm with just his fingers, until the vocalist’s chest and stomach flush pink up to his throat—Minho lies himself down on the mattress and replaces his fingers with his lips and tongue.

Minho holds Seungyoon’s thighs open, not enough to hurt, but enough that Seungyoon can’t buck or try to close his legs. Minho doesn’t stop, lets Seungyoon stroke himself while Minho continues, tongue pushing into Seungyoon’s heat, lips over Seungyoon’s puckered entrance. When Seungyoon’s breathing changes—when it goes past pants and gasps, growing shorter and quicker to match the way his body begins to seize up, Minho somehow hears and knows as well, and then—he stops.

Seungyoon never lets Minho get his clothes off all the way—at most, he only gives Minho enough to strip off his shirt, roll a condom on, and slick himself up before wrapping his legs around Minho’s waist and pulling him forward, gasping, “Hurry up—”

Somehow, that never fails to make Minho laugh, low and hot, eyes crinkling, teeth flashing, and the sight of it makes Seungyoon’s throat go dry. Despite how Minho, on these nights, indulges Seungyoon—takes care of him, gives and gives and gives—when it comes down to this moment, Minho makes Seungyoon ache and plead.

“Revenge,” Minho always says, when Seungyoon accuses him of being cruel, “you always go slow on purpose, too.”

If Seungyoon had the voice to argue back at that moment, he would. He would point out that Seungyoon doesn’t make an absolute _show_ of it the way Minho does—Seungyoon takes his time, but Minho is a tease—gaze never leaving Seungyoon’s eyes as the rapper takes Seungyoon’s legs on his shoulders one by one, idling by as he straightens up on his knees with his tip lined up right to push inside of Seungyoon, but making no moves to do so.

“Fuck me,” Seungyoon hears himself whisper, almost as if he’s watching someone else take a hold of his voice and mouth and mind. Minho takes both of Seungyoon’s wrists into one hand, raising them above the vocalist’s head, holding them down against the edge of the mattress. “Fuck me.”

Minho has one hand over Seungyoon’s knee, securing so that at least one leg remains on Minho, and he pushes himself entirely inside with one smooth thrust, curling his body in to kiss Seungyoon as he bottoms out. Minho is a good kisser, but right now, Seungyoon can’t fully find it in himself to revel in that—pulling his face back instead just enough to demand, in a tone that sounds less demanding and more begging, “Move—Minho, _move_.”

Minho’s lips curve into a smile against Seungyoon’s cheek, and then he moves.

Seungyoon doesn’t know how—has even asked Minho before, a number of times, when they are lying tangled up in each other and the covers (to which Minho never answers with anything but an incredulous laugh and a warm kiss)—but Minho somehow never fails, within the first few rolls of his hips into Seungyoon, to brush right up against the spot that has Seungyoon a twisting, keening mess under Minho. Worse still, Minho purposely doesn’t thrust into it until Seungyoon reaches the point where he’s desperate enough to begin moving his own hips, attempting to angle himself if Minho refuses to.

Minho kisses Seungyoon again then—and now he doesn’t stop kissing Seungyoon. The vocalist has no idea how Minho can kiss so well, so focused, like all he’s concentrated on is just to make-out with Seungyoon, as dirtily yet precisely as possible, when Minho is also moving inside of Seungyoon as if he has all the time in the world—all the control in the world.

Seungyoon comes first—he honestly thinks it’d be impossible for him not to when Minho suddenly slows down, and with the hand that had previously been holding Seungyoon’s wrists over his head, Minho fits two fingers inside of Seungyoon, beside Minho’s own cock, fingering and thrusting into Seungyoon at the same time.

Minho kisses Seungyoon through his orgasm, slows his movements again but doesn’t stop, even when Seungyoon starts whimpering from the oversensitivity. Only now, _now_ after all of that, Minho’s expression isn’t as collected and heated as it was moments ago. Now, Seungyoon wraps his arms around Minho’s neck, legs locked around Minho’s waist. Minho straightens up slightly, an arm around Seungyoon’s hips so that both of them are off the mattress upright.

There’s always a distinct difference between the way Minho takes when he’s giving—when he wants to drive Seungyoon absolutely mad, until he’s coming after barely stroking himself—and when Minho takes to take the way he does now, his thrusts are no longer controlled or precise. They are messy, harder, faster, physically moving Seungyoon up and dropping him down rapidly—even if Seungyoon contained his voice, he wouldn’t be able to slow the way his breathing audibly picks up and hitches just from the sheer force of it. Seungyoon closes his eyes, burying his face against the column of Minho’s throat as Minho finishes himself off, Seungyoon’s name on his lips when he comes.

Seungyoon wishes he didn’t always fall asleep so soon afterwards, but more often than not, he wakes up within an hour or so, clean and warm, still naked but now with Minho naked as well beside him, beneath the blankets. The lights are usually still on when Seungyoon stirs from his post-coital nap, unless Minho is extremely exhausted and flicks them off to pass out beside Seungyoon for the night.

Tonight isn’t one of those nights, though, it seems—everything is still on, soothing and colored and dim, and Minho is lying on his stomach, drawing on one of his small notepads with a plain pencil.

“Hungry?” Minho murmurs without taking his eyes from his work, hand still moving in swift, small movements even as Seungyoon lets him know he’s awake with a brush of his mouth against Minho’s bare arm.

“Is anything near us even open anymore?” Seungyoon turns onto his side to face the rapper completely. He tangles one of his legs through Minho’s.

“It’s not that late yet.” Minho sets the notepad and pencil off the edge of the mattress then, onto the floor, and he slides in closer to Seungyoon, placing his arm over and across Seungyoon’s body so that Seungyoon is half-framed beneath Minho. “There’s the convenience store anyway—if you’re starving.” Seungyoon realizes there had been music playing this entire time—he forgets sometimes in the middle of everything that it’s still playing.

He curls his fingers against the back of Minho’s neck, fingertips dancing along the soft skin there up into Minho’s hair. “Not hungry,” Seungyoon says, and Minho’s eyes are dark and warm—just looking up into them, the way they’re surrounded by thick lashes, set deep and finely into Minho’s face, it never fails to make Seungyoon feel like he’s being heated from the inside out—all the way to his fingertips and toes. “Can you turn up the music though?”

A furrow appears between Minho’s eyebrows for a moment as he listens, a split moment to identify what song is playing and then his eyes roll at the same time that he pulls away slightly to laugh. “Still?” he asks, looking at Seungyoon with a mix of amusement and fondness—and the heat spreading through Seungyoon’s body becomes even warmer. “You need to get a new favorite song, this one is like—a year old. That’s old.”

Seungyoon sniffs as Minho disentangles himself, the blankets slipping off as he steps to the desk to turn the volume up as the song reaches the chorus. “Music is timeless.”

Minho rolls his eyes on the way back to the mattress, tumbling back down and throwing his arms around Seungyoon all in one fell swoop. He wraps himself completely around Seungyoon, pulling him on top of himself. Seungyoon braces his arms on either side of Minho’s head against the pillows, meeting Minho’s smile with one of his own.

“Well, new good music is endless,” Minho says, hands cradling Seungyoon’s hips. “D’you want to hear a new song—you’ll be ahead of the cool kids just like me,” he grins.

Seungyoon snorts, “Okay.” He lies down completely on top of Minho, closing his eyes to the feel Minho’s heartbeat against his own bare chest. “Play it after this one finishes, though.”

 

* * *

 강 **송**

* * *

 

Minho wants Seungyoon to be selfish.

Minho wants Seungyoon selfish, reckless, and impulsive. Sometimes, Minho wants Seungyoon to be everything the vocalist isn’t—those moments when Minho manages to bring Seungyoon to a point where what anyone else would recognize as Kang Seungyoon crumbles away, melting as easily as ice cream on a scorching, summer day. Minho remembers the first time they did this—remembers Seungyoon moving slow not to make Minho ache or frustrate him or tease him, but slow because he was afraid of hurting Minho.

It was all Seungyoon kept repeating—asking Minho if there was any pain now, or now, or how about _now_ —until Minho ran his fingers through Seungyoon’s hair, cupping the back of his head, and told him to take. That it was all right to take. That, “I’m pretty strong. You’ll be surprised,” Minho grins against Seungyoon’s bottom lip, tugging at it slightly with his teeth.

Something in Seungyoon’s gaze had changed then, not exactly the relief or gratitude that maybe someone else might expect—someone who didn’t know Seungyoon—but rather curiosity. Unrestrained curiosity coating his eyes then, and that night he’d ended up having Minho on all fours, pitching forward onto the pillows, hands fisting the sheets until the corners had begun to come undone from the mattress, even though they were at a hotel where the beds were immaculately and tightly made.

Minho realized, after that night, that was how he wanted it, how he wanted Seungyoon—again and again and again.

He is able—is allowed, is privileged—to see a side of Seungyoon no one else does, that no one else can, perhaps no one else ever will. Minho gets to feel Seungyoon—gentle Seungyoon—dig his fingers against Minho’s hips, holding them down, holding them against Seungyoon, moving Minho around just by his hips to how Seungyoon wants him until Minho feels them sore and nearly bruised the next morning. Minho barely has a hand slipping down to stroke himself when Seungyoon—kind, _giving_ Seungyoon—circles Minho’s wrist with his long fingers and pulls both of his hands up to the headboard. “Not yet,” Seungyoon says, against Minho’s ear, his front completely pressed and curved up against Minho’s back, wedging his knee between the backs of Minho’s thighs to spread him open wider.

Minho is the only one who knows exactly how sweet, soft, gentlemanly Seungyoon fucks.

The way Seungyoon fucks is almost obscene—his touches can either be bruising hard or feather-light, his movements are either slow and careful or deep and rough. He’s a whirlwind of contradictions that never fails to have Minho’s breath hitching, laced with his voice, to every thrust Seungyoon makes into him. Sometimes, Minho feels like Seungyoon is splitting him apart simply by being inside of him—sometimes Minho takes advantage of the fact that he’s face down, turning his head against the side of his arm as he clings to the headboard and pillows, biting down on the skin there to cut off a sound that comes out half-whine, half-sob.

Minho wants Seungyoon to be selfish—to make Minho ache until he digs his fingernails into Seungyoon’s soft skin, begging—but Seungyoon is still Seungyoon. He still stops, right in the middle of it all, pulls out just to flip Minho over onto his back. Seungyoon lies himself between Minho’s legs and lets Minho fuck into his mouth first, lets Minho always come first, hands in Seungyoon’s hair, eyes briefly passing over the way Seungyoon’s full, pink lips are stretched around Minho’s cock, nose against coarse hair; and then, Minho’s eyes roll up shut, head tipping back, body spasming as his orgasm pumps through him.

Once, Seungyoon had given a reason for why he always has Minho come first—he’d told Minho when the vocalist had his long fingers inside of Minho, his other hand slowly thumbing Minho’s tip. “You’re relaxed around me,” Seungyoon had said it, lips warm against Minho’s temple and Minho tries not to let his eyes roll back into his head at every sensation hitting him then. “You take me in better, then. It feels better inside of you—then.”

Seungyoon turns Minho back over onto his stomach, swiftly but gently, fingers slipping in and crooking inside of Minho a few times even as Minho trembles from the sensitivity, on the edge of overstimulation and just right. Minho knows Seungyoon is right though, as he sighs almost contentedly into the pillows as Seungyoon thrusts back in again. Minho’s sighs return quickly back into sharp, muted sounds straddling the line between pleasure and pain when Seungyoon picks up his pace. Minho feels the corners of the headboard dig into his palms as his grip tightens. He just came but he feels himself twitch in response every time Seungyoon inevitably brushes over his prostate—shudders as Seungyoon finishes himself off inside of Minho because just the vocalist’s sheer size always makes Minho feel like it’s almost too much. Everything is too much, like he’s indulging too deeply, falling too hard.

He inadvertently mentions as much, out loud, in a way he only can when he’s intoxicated or on the verge of passing out the way he is while they’re lying in each other’s arms, too tired and still too hot to pull the blankets up over themselves, let alone wash up. It has Seungyoon laughing sleepily, sliding in even closer to Minho, one thin arm tossed across Minho’s stomach. “I’m too much?” he asks, voice husky and content.

“Like ice cream,” Minho knows what he’s saying makes absolutely no sense, but the words refuse to stop coming even as his eyelids grow heavier and heavier—lulled by Seungyoon’s warmth at his side. “Shouldn’t binge on you—gonna regret it later.”

“Mm,” Seungyoon has himself on his side, hand moving from Minho’s stomach to the rapper’s face, fingers playing over Minho’s cheekbones, nose, lips. “Like alcohol?”

Minho curls an arm around Seungyoon’s waist, turning in to bury his face against the vocalist’s collarbone. “No,” he mumbles, closing his eyes. “Too sweet to be drinks. Ice cream.”

Seungyoon’s soft laughter is the last thing he hears before he drifts away.

 

 

* * *

   
  
_Waste this night away with me  
_ _I can’t look away_


End file.
